Counseling
by Kilrez
Summary: Taking apart a cat to see how it worked would tell you lots about the cat, and destroy it in the same motion. People were his cats.


**Counselling**

We all assume that House is a gruff old man who nevertheless secretly has a heart of gold... This is a somewhat depressing look at if it t'were not so.

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The first thing that hit Wilson as he wandered into House's office that morning was the thin chemical smell of strong alcohol. He panicked momentarily, brain throwing up scenarios where the body on the floor was dead, by one means or another. But he wasn't. He was still breathing, chest rising and falling not quite imperceptibly.

Heart almost breaking in his chest, Wilson crossed to the wall of the room that was an outside window and drew the blinds. He returned to kneel by House, who had cracked open one eye. 'Come on House, they don't need to see you like this,' Wilson almost berated him, not knowing really what to do.

''m a bad person,' House slurred, fairly indecipherably.

'You're a drunk person. I'll drive you home, you can take a day off.' Gently, Wilson attempted to help House sit up. The floppy, heavy body didn't even make an effort to move of its own volition.

'Take the rest of my life off. 'm quitting.' It was more of a desperate threat that a fact, but it still made Wilson wince.

'You don't want to quit,' he tried soothingly.

''s always about what I want. Not right.'

'House, you're not a bad person,' Wilson said in exasperation. 'You save lives. Your team would walk through hot coals for you. It's about what you want because what you want is good for people.'

House had opened both eyes, and the look he gave Wilson then seemed far too direct and real for the alcohol practically crystallising out of his breath. It was a mixture of pity and sadness, though for what, Wilson wasn't sure.

'How'd you stay so innocent?' he asked, and the question held no disdain, only some threads of disbelief. Wilson frowned, disliking the moment when House began to pick him apart. He urged him to sit up again. 'Come on. I don't want you to choke on your vomit.'

'It'd do the world a favour,' blanched House as he sat, swaying slightly and hunching down on his rising nausea.

'You're a melancholy drunk,' Wilson told him, glancing back out at the corridor. He wished he'd closed the blinds, but he wasn't going to get up now. He just hoped House's team would be a little late for work today.

'_In vino, veritas,'_ House muttered in slurring Latin. Wilson raised an eyebrow.

'What truth would that be?'

House just sighed, shaking his head slightly. 'And because I'm a bad person, I still can't tell you, even now. Where's my cane?'

Deciding it was just drunken ramblings, although oddly, House seemed to be getting more sober by the minute, Wilson rose to his feet to retrieve the cane, hooked on one edge of House's desk. House got to his feet by Wilson practically lifting him from under the armpits. Once vertical, he refused to take the weight on his feet for several moments, leaving Wilson straining as he supported him.

'Stand up House,' he coaxed the body that lolled against him. Sighing, it complied, unsteadily planting cane and foot to take some weight. Wilson released him gingerly, still cautious in case he fell. He slumped, and swayed, but stayed there, and Wilson backed away so he could still keep an eye on that defeated form whilst he pulled the door open.

'Come on House,' he murmured, watching anxiously as the cripple sullenly employed his uneven two beat shuffle to follow him to the door, then down the corridor, then into his car, then into his house. Wilson waited around long enough to make sure that House really wasn't going to choke on his vomit, and that he was settled in bed, before driving back to work.

When he heard his apartment door slam shut, House opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to cry, but he was sure he'd forgotten how. Sitting up and pushing the covers off himself, he stripped off his shirt, over which he'd carefully sprinkled enough whiskey to give him that aura of the incredibly inebriated. Lip curling slightly, he tossed it into the laundry basket, and limped into the bathroom to wash the lingering scent away. His step was now perfectly steady, save for the normal unsteadiness from a withered thigh.

He couldn't meet his own eyes in the mirror, and realised he'd always thought that was a bad cliché until it actually happened to him. Feeling a need to punish himself, he turned the shower on full cold, and didn't flinch when he stepped under it, taking his time until his skin was pale blue and pebbled with goose bumps. He deserved it.

Finally, when his muscles were starting to ache from shivering, he allowed himself to shut it off, the air feeling strangely warm against his chilled skin. As he dried himself, he toyed with the idea of keeping a diary.

_Dear diary. Today I manipulated Chase into taking a history from a criminal with anger issues, just to see if he'd get hit and how he'd react when he did. Not resting on my laurels, I successfully kept Cameron on the fence, because she's much more fun when it appears my feelings are ambiguous. Am having good progress on getting Foreman to crack. Still very interested to know about his parents. And Wilson refuses to believe anything other than that I do it for their own good._

He decided that diaries were far too depressing. _Your team would walk through hot coals for you._ Wilson's words whispered through the room and House punched the wall, pain arcing through his knuckles. A half-sob, half-laugh emanated from deep in his throat, and he pulled his fist away, noting the small dint he'd made in the plaster. Looking absently at his hand as he unclenched it, the pain almost seemed a separate part of him, distant and only important when you were yourself. House wasn't.

Breathing heavily, he tucked a towel around his hips and limped into his living room, pausing, uncertain what to do. He couldn't play when these feeling were ripping through his chest. To try would only elicit clumsy, crashing cords, depressing him yet further. But hell, he deserved to be depressed.

'Bad person,' whispered House, grimacing at the massive understatement. He manipulated everyone. They didn't even see it. Well, sometimes, very occasionally, Wilson saw it. But Wilson didn't know, didn't realise that House manipulated him too. And that House didn't do it for some grand and noble cause. In the glaring emptiness where his conscience should have been, all that was left to grope for was perfect understanding, of everything and everyone.

Taking apart a cat to see how it worked would tell you lots about the cat, and destroy it in the same motion. People were his cats.

Sighing heavily, House just collapsed on the couch, letting his head rest on the back. He was considering actually going for the alcohol, but he knew that two glasses would give him the courage to knock back a whole bottle of Vicodin with the third. And he didn't want them to find his body, spittle drying on his lips and limbs twisted into grotesquely final pain. Then he laughed bitterly; he didn't want that because he wouldn't be able to see them react. There was no point in doing something if he couldn't see how they reacted.

Taking out his pill bottle, he carefully tapped one out, just one, and toyed with it for a moment before swallowing it, feeling the peristalsis all the way down his throat. Soon enough, the emotions began to fade, and his usual numbness prevailed once more. It was so much easier to do what he did when you didn't feel the twinge of pained guilt from seeing the trusting love in Cameron's eyes.

With an effort, he relaxed all of his muscles, ignoring that he was still cold from his shower, and his mind started up again. He let it. It was difficult to stop it. So… he needed a case with parents embroiled, where he could drag Foreman in and watch the fireworks.

Ironically, it was the planning and manipulation that both fed his guilt, and allowed him to forget it, cover it up, and move on. To more planning and manipulation. Vicious cycle. Most things were. His hand ached. He ignored it.

**oo00OO00oo**

He took a taxi into work the next morning, and met Wilson in the lobby, just starting his clinic duty. Careful now, don't over do it.

'Hey Jimmy,' House greeted him, not meeting his eyes, fidgeting slightly, miming out discomfort. Wilson nodded to him, waiting hopefully, ready to forgive.

'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that at work,' he confessed, adding in just a little bit of backbone to look Wilson directly in the eye.

'It's OK. We all crash sometimes.' Wilson smiled weakly. House uncertainly kept his gaze for a few moments before ducking his gaze and nodding. 'Wanna do lunch?' he asked.

'Yeah, I've got a meeting though, so can we do it a bit later?'

'Sure,' replied House, giving his friend a parting half-smile, before heading on to the lifts. When the doors closed behind him, and Wilson could no longer look longingly after him, House straightened his shoulders, shaking off the act. He'd played it well; now Wilson would be treating him slightly delicately for the next few days, feeling secretly gratified that he'd been able to help his friend. It kept House in control. Necessary, he told himself, leaning back against the lift wall for a moment. Bastard.

He limped into the diagnostics office slower than usual, playing up his absence yesterday. They would know why he'd been gone. His office still held a whiff of alcohol, and he'd trained them to notice things, and to seek out facts. He'd also trained them to mentally affix positive meanings behind all his actions. He was certain of sympathy, even from Foreman, who would show surface disdain. Sympathy was good to work with.

'Morning children,' he said brightly, entering with an innocent expression. The atmosphere was wary regard, them trying to work out how to bring it up without breaking any unspoken rules. Cameron looked concerned, Foreman disdainful and Chase slightly pitying. Perfectly predictable. House had constructed those unspoken rules, and they barely even realised it, but there'd be no way they'd be bringing it up.

'Hi House.'

'Morning.'

Plus a small grunt from Chase, returning to his crossword. Child of an alcoholic. Interesting. House watched them all for a moment, unspoken accusations from them lying heavy in the air, before limping across to the whiteboard.

They would have been friends, had they met in any other circumstances. He'd taken that, driving neat wedges between them, replacing it with competition and suspicion only lightly veiled by professional respect. Oh, they'd be the best. The very top of the elite in their fields when he was done with them. But they'd be irreparably broken. And they didn't even suspect.

Hanging his head for a moment to suppress the useless emotions that were rising again, he abruptly looked up, his piercing gaze taking in three now expectant expressions. He couldn't help the bitter smile.

'I don't suppose any of you three would consider walking out the door right now?'

'You feeling all right?' frowned Foreman. House just shook his head, dismissing it.

'Always. Tell me, what can cause simultaneous breathing depression and tachycardia?'

'Drugs,' stated Foreman simply. Chase and Cameron were a little more detailed. House just leaned back and listened. It was that easy. One day, when they were older and a lot wiser, they would look back, and realise what he'd done. And for all he was an atheist, he prayed they'd hate him then, because he could barely stand their devotion right now.

Shaking his head, a motion none of them caught, he began to write down the ideas.

The End.


End file.
